Off To See The Wild West Show Part 1, Chapter 6 (4/6) By Frank Beill 1886: Hull, Yorkshire

(1/6), (2/6), (3/6), (4/6), (5/6), (6/6). Part 1 Chapter 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20. Part 2 Prologue, Chapter 1, 2, 3.

'Please, sir.' My stomach was tied in knots. 'Please, sir.' 'What, boy?' Mr Rodgers snapped back, looking offended by an unwarranted interruption to suppertime supervision. When he saw who was the cause of the nuisance, offence turned to anger. 'Spit it out boy!' 'Please, sir. Have you read the newspaper, sir?'

I knew I was making a mistake, but I was desperate to know the truth. 'Yes, I have ... but why should you want to know anything of newspapers?' His demand was loud. He wanted everyone in the room to be aware he was exercising his authority. The room fell silent and all eyes focussed upon my tormenter and myself. 'Please, sir. Is Buffalo Bill coming to Hull?' My voice quavered and my knees knocked together. 'What in creation is a buffalo bill, boy? Ducks have bills ... not buffaloes!' This encouraged giggles from certain factions in the room especially the group around Edward Snelgrove. A large hairy hand grabbed the top of my head and twisted it around forcefully. I was now facing back towards the end of the queue waiting to collect supper. Painfully the rest of my body followed. His grip was released but the pain of a hard clout across the back of my head followed swiftly.

'Get back in the queue and don't waste my time, my little pickaninny!' The Scottish accent became a harsh staccato whenever he was angry. I darted out of reach of further blows and joined the others. Snelgrove was sniggering loudly. I knew the word 'pickaninny' was being added to his vocabulary of insults, to await use at a time when it would cause me the maximum aggravation.

Anger was added to my frustration. I needed to know the truth. It was not just about the visit of my hero, the bravest man in the world. There would be others coming with him from America and one of them must know of my father's whereabouts. Surely it couldn't be such a big place, could it?

The next day was to be one of torment and it wasn't only because of my frustration in not knowing the truth about the impending visit of my hero. Standing alone in the playground, I was wracking my brain. Who could tell me if the butcher's boy had told Sal the truth?

George said he needed to have a word with Sal, but I think he was still hungry - he was always hungry - and was hoping to get something to tide him over until dinnertime. My mind was not on the moment. This lapse in concentration was as dangerous in the orphanage yard as it was for a lone scout in the depths of Indian country. Unseen hands from behind grabbed both my arms and I was dragged backwards across the stone flags. The heels of my boots clipped on the edge of each flag, before I was spun around and dropped in a bundle on the hard floor. 'Pickaninny! Pickaninny!'

Continued Next Page

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